all we are is dust

Myrika Tears · 02-13-2012, 05:31 AM

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(5289) Dated 6 March. Yay character development? 8| With Ithiel de le Poer.

Myrika

It had been a week since that terrible day. Myrika had not left the Great Village in all this time, though she worried for Halo. The rust-hued coyote did not know whether the Triarii was alive or dead. No one had come to bring her news. Part of her was glad of that; the rest of her was decidedly not. She hadn't even told Kaena of the border drama, but the scarred woman was not oblivious -- the Causarius had smelled the blood, after all. Neither was her grandmother entirely cut-off from Inferni -- to her surprise, Myrika found the scarred woman rather gregarious, still spending most of her days meandering around the clan's lands. It wouldn't have surprised her to know Kaena had learned from other source. If she knew, though, the scarred woman was allowing Myrika to deal with it in her own time.

Myrika had taken care to wash the blood from herself, thankful she'd been wearing a thin metal chain rather than a leather-corded necklace or bandanna. She feared they might have stained permanently -- she did not know enough about washing bloodstains to know this was probably untrue for the leather. She was right to fear for her bandannas, however. Thoughts like this, however, led the russet-shaded woman to question how she could be so cruel as to have gratitude over such a petty thing when she'd taken the life from another living being.

Shellshocked as she was, the red-haired woman had not neglected the livestock. On the contrary, the woman had tended to the horses, Farai, and the sheep nearly every waking hour for the past week, using work to avoid thinking. Cahal and Eira were growing weary of her presence, but at least it was doing Lystra some good. With a somewhat kindly owner, temporary as Myrika was, the liver chestnut was beginning to calm. The big mare had lost none of her dominance toward other horses, however, and Myri thought this trait would not soon leave Lystra, if it ever did.

Cahal stepped away from her, snorting angrily. The bay stallion had endured just about enough of her attention, and he would tolerate no more. Sighing heavily, the woman conceded defeat and replaced the brush in its customary spot. As Myri stepped from Cahal's stall, Eira hung her head over the stall and peered at her owner with curious brown eyes. The hybrid sidled close and leaned her head against the horse's, closing her eyes. She reopened them immediately, unable to force the savaged corpses and battered, bloodied Halo from her mind. Sleep had been difficult these last weeks.

You look like shit, a voice said, dry and deep.

Ithiel

Nothing changed for Ithiel after the border attack. He was no stranger to violence, though it surprised him such an attack had not occured sooner in his membership. Wolves, both of them -- the dust-colored coyote hadn't been surprised at the species. The only surprise that day was his red-haired cousin's ferocity. There was no finesse whatsoever to the Praetorian's attack, but rudimentary as her technique was, it felled the attacker all the same. Ithiel's arrow had done no work save ensure the dead was truly dead -- perhaps an unnecessary precaution, considering where Myrika had bitten the wolf.

He had expected to see her on the borders. Their duties crossed one another more often than not these days now that she served as Praetorian and he as Vigiles. He had seen no sign of Myrika, however, and though the dust-colored coyote was not wont to worry, concern budded in him, a small and quiet voice bidding him to visit her village. Conscious as he was of that voice, Ithiel would not neglect his duties, and he worked double-time to keep them safe without Myrika. It had taken some days to find free time, but now that he had it, the dark man headed for the village schoolhouse on the back of Bairre.

Ithiel was glad for this new horse. His cousin had spoken true of its temperament, and Bairre was doing his part to teach Ithiel proper horsemanship. Though he was growing more proficient with these animals, he didn't overestimate his prowess: he didn't know how Bairre would interact with other horses, and God spare the roan stallion if Lystra roamed the corral. The dust-colored coyote tethered the horse's reins to a post outside of the corral, sparing a glance toward the low-slung, brick building Myrika had chosen for a living space. The building was dark, and he decided she was not within.

The granite-furred hybrid saw his precautions with the horse unnecessary as he slid the gate open and stepped through into an empty corral. He saw the sheep and Farai, huddled in a corner of a separate paddock. They congregated beneath an overhang of branches, though the scrawny trees provided scant shelter against the weather. The overcast sky threatened rain; the dark hybrid intended to be inside long before the storm broke. He stepped around the closed wall of the stables, peering in on his red-haired cousin. She stood leaning her head against one of the horses, looking ragged, tired, and even hungry. He spoke, and she did not startle as he expected.

Thank you, came her caustic reply. There was no energy behind it, and Ithiel took this in with the faintest hint of a frown. He was not so comfortable with his cousin as his brother, but he had come to like Myrika quite a fair bit more than when they'd initially met. He trusted her, at least, and he had sworn to protect her and serve her -- if nothing else, she outranked him, and he was bound to her in this sense. There was more than just their working relationship, however.

Ithiel was beginning to see the value in his extended family; the day on the borders had helped him to see this. Ezekiel had acted as commander, Enkiel perhaps the most competent medic he'd seen. Even Halo, half-dead as she was, had acted to protect Inferni and her offspring. Have you eaten? the man inquired. Then, just as quickly, he spoke again: no, of course not. Come with me, he said, more of an order than an invitation. Thankfully, the rusty-haired woman did not object, and instead stepped past her horses. Ithiel threw a glance toward Lystra, and then turned to lead his cousin outside.

Myrika

Her cousin stood in the doorway, stiff as ever. There was never anything casual about Ithiel, and Myrika both liked and disliked this about him. They spent most of their time together simply riding the borders with one another, trading tips of horsemanship and tactics. Ithiel had the knowledge of war, Myrika the knowledge of horses. As each lacked what the other desired, they shared openly with one another. Her swarthy cousin rarely spoke of himself, however, and Myrika had learned to keep her own side-chatter to a minimum around him. Sometimes he did not respond at all, and other times, he responded in a manner so literal and practial Myrika could only gape for a few moments, wondering how he'd drawn his conclusions.

Ithiel inquired as to whether she'd eaten, and as she opened her mouth to answer positively, he cut her off, speaking truer than she had intended to. Frowning, the rust-hued woman stepped outside and into the colder air, following after Ithiel morosely and without a word. She saw Bairre tied to the post of the corral as they exited, a pale, gray-furred bundle slung over his back. Myrika recognized it for a dead goat, and her stomach lurched. She'd eaten only a few times since that day, mostly for fear of looking at another torn-open corpse. Ithiel seemed to have no intention of leaving this subject, however, for when she hesitated, he turned his head and looked at her with a quirked eyebrow, beckoning her onward with no more than a look.

For once, her cousin was naked -- he did not wear his typical leather protection, and Myri saw he was without Zedekiah. Perhaps Bairre disliked the modified saddle used on Lystra. More likely, the overcast day meant Zedekiah's scouting was more trouble than it was worth. For her part, Myri was wearing one of the long skirts she'd crafted, the upper half of her body bared. The thin leather swished around her feet as she walked and Myrika was nervous about how she looked, as always, but it was sheer folly to hope her cousin would comment on her attire.

The cloud-colored coyote pulled the goat from Bairre's back with strong arms. Ithiel did not have to direct her as to what to do with the roan stallion -- Myrika unhooked the horse's reins once he was within the corral and shut the gate behind him. The stallion loped over to the sheep's pen, bending his head toward the animals with interest. Farai brayed at him and met him with an extended snout. The red roan tossed his head in excitement and pranced up and down the length of the fence separating the sheep and horse paddocks. Farai trotted after him, happy to make a new friend even through a fence. Myrika tried to smile, but it quickly turned to a bitter grimace.

Ithiel

The dusky coyote carried the goat toward Myrika's firepit, though he hesitated a moment, pausing before the door. Is Kaena here? he inquired. He did not know his grandmother had moved out this way, but her scent was strong all about the building. Myrika considered and peered inside, lifting one of the leather flaps covering the door's broken windows. Ithiel set the goat down on the snowy ground next to the firepit, kicking the snow out from between the rocks. Most of the ground was dry here thanks to the overhang. Ithiel leaned in the window to the unused front room, grabbing logs of firewood.

I don't think so. She might be asleep, Myrika said. Oh... she moved out here, she added, unprompted. I thought you didn't like cooked meat. Everything about the red-haired woman seemed dulled, even to Ithiel, who was not extremely perceptive where it came to others' emotions. Generally, his cousin's boisterousness was borderline irritating to Ithiel -- though she was older, it felt like toting around a child well past the adorable phase and entering the more trying phases. Now, she seemed a pale shade of her former self, all the fire in her hair burned to ash.

You like cooked meat, and I don't intend to cook the whole thing, he said, starting the fire with a spark from a flint and steel. The kindling caught quickly and blazed. Myrika did not reply, and Ithiel shot a glance toward her -- she was looking out and toward the horse pen, where Bairre was still enjoying himself. So, you have a new neighbor, he added. This did cause Myrika to give him a look, her startlingly blue eyes catching his red ones in question. Ithiel averted his gaze back to the fire, awaiting her response.

Myrika

The copper-hinted Praetorian looked at her cousin in surprise. It was rare Ithiel made such mundane inquiries, and the question was most unexpected. The woman shrugged uncertainly, feigning a smile. This time, she was able to keep it on her face for a moment before it vanished, and it did not turn to a grimace. Yes, she said. It's good not to be all alone anymore. There wasn't much else to say -- she had but a day to enjoy Kaena's company while she was... what? Her old self? Had she changed so much in just a week? The past seven days felt much more like seven years.

But you haven't spoken to her since she moved in, the man said, somehow sounding utterly indifferent. His big knife was out, the one Myrika had grabbed while they rode toward Halo and her attackers. It was more a dagger than a knife, in truth, and Myrika wished she would have used it. At least the blood wouldn't have been all over her face, in her hair, all over her torso. Maybe just her arm, maybe just her shoulder. The knife flashed a few times and the goat was minus one of its large haunches after a rending yank from the darker coyote. Ithiel flipped the corpse and did the same with the other hind leg.

Myrika looked away as the knife flashed toward the goat's belly. She could not keep the sounds of splitting flesh and sliding organs from her ears, though. No, I have, the red-haired woman insisted, though it was a meek insistence. She had spoken to Kaena more than once since the old woman moved in. No, they weren't particularly long conversations, but that counted, right? Her dust-colored cousin laughed lowly, a short noise Myrika had never before heard him utter.

Pleasantries about the day do not count for talking. This was delivered flatly, and the dark man never looked up from his slicing and dicing. Soon enough, there were long strips of meat on the rocks of the firepit. Ithiel was not much of a cook at all, likely owing to his lack of taste for cooked meat, but he was not entirely hopeless. Scintillan platoons were varied in their tastes, and kitchen duties often included cooking. You're not talking to me much, either. Chunks of the goat's meat and organs were speared onto long, thin sticks, and he roasted the kebabs slowly, turning them high over the fire so they would be perfectly bronzed rather than charred. If he did it well enough, he might even indulge -- this depended how raw they were, though. And -- you haven't attended to border duties in a week, he pointed out.

Ithiel

His cousin did flare at this, her blue eyes growing wide to show the pale white around their edges. Ithiel saw this from the corner of his vision, as he was absorbed in his cooking. He held a kebab out to Myrika before she could speak. Please -- eat first, the man said, his tone more placating than commanding. This changed the anger in the Praetorian's countenance to surprise, and she took the stick from him more of shock than acquiescence, or so Ithiel thought. She needed to eat, though, and he would ascertain she did.

Ithiel had wondered the same thing himself. Why was he here? He was not suited to this task, but he had taken it upon himself, however uncomfortable it made him. She was not his sister, no -- she was not Aemon, but she was family. Ezekiel was family, too, and Enkiel. They had showed their strength to him, and he was bound to do the same, both by blood and by oath. Useless as he felt, perhaps his presence would aid her yet.

Myrika held the stick in her hand, making no move to eat it. Instead, she looked at Ithiel with apprehension and accusation written across her face. Questions lurked there, as well, but Ithiel could not begin to guess half of them. Some were easy enough -- he intended to share the Triarii's fate with her, and all else of importance within the clan, of course, but the look of Myrika's face was nearly pained. Why are you acting so weird? she demanded of him, big coyote ears flicking backwards.

Ithiel took another stick and speared more chunks of meat, setting a finished one aside for his cousin. The dust-colored man saw she had yet to eat, but he was certain her hunger would eventually win; there was no need of further prompting. He took in a deep, slow breath and prepared his response to her question. You're not quite yourself, either, he pointed out. Last week -- killing affected you, didn't it?

Myrika

The directness with which he approached last week appalled her. She set the kebab down next to her, grimacing and gritting her teeth. He'd even used that word, the one she'd worked so very hard to avoid. Hearing it was a kick in the stomach all over again, and the rusty-furred woman could only look at her cousin dumbly. I see, he said, replacing the kebab with another, thrusting it rudely into her hand. Eat, the gesture insisted, and so she did, if only because it saved her from talking.

I do not know what you're feeling. I wasn't made to feel in those ways -- perhaps I am the broken one. No matter, though, for I've seen this same thing eating at you in others. The dusty-colored coyote paused here, and Myrika chewed, swallowed. Even those raised in warfare don't always take easy to killing. Some even in Scintilla, their grandparents and parents veterans of our wars -- they choke, they cry, they withdraw in the days after. Myrika now looked at her cousin with gradually growing surprise. She had not known Ithiel was even capable of thinking in these ways -- he had shown nothing of this intelligence to her before, and she thought him a rather simple creature because of it.

She took another piece of the half-raw meat and her stomach gurgled, though it was not in revulsion or nausea, but hunger -- she was so hungry, now that she had started to eat, the rusty-hued coyote could hardly keep herself from devouring the entirety of this kebab and starting on the one she'd resisted. Instead, she forced herself to eat it piece by piece, listening with growing fascination as her cousin continued. Despite the interest, there was still that morose darkness lurking within her, that regret and guilt that had plagued her since taking a life.

Ours is not an easy existence. Scintilla or Inferni, it matters not, it seems. I've listened to you talk of the place you were born. If you cannot or will not fight to defend yourself and your home, I urge you to return there -- it may be that place is lucky and the wolves will never come for it. But there is no guarantee, was implied, and heavily. The dust-colored coyote passed two more sticks to Myrika, and she set one down beside the first, beginning on the second. The scent of the cooked, unspiced meat had drawn her into its grasp, and she would need to eat her fill now. As she bit down, the heat was palpable, but the centers were blue-rare, still faintly cool.

You did what needed doing. If you hadn't killed her, I would have. If neither of us killed her, it would have been Halo. It still may be Halo's life, the man said, spinning a final kebab slowly over the fire as he spoke. I cannot say if we saved her; it's no longer in our hands, it's -- the man started. Myrika swallowed noisly and lifted her lip, gleaming white teeth bared in a snarl more rare than all Ithiel's smiles combined.

Don't you say a word of your god and his fate. The last word was spat so forcefully, a small sliver of meat left Myrika's mouth with it, sailing into the evening air and growing darkness. It wasn't fate that made them attack her in the first place, and it sure as hell wasn't fate that made me go running up and -- and --

Ithiel

Kill, he supplied, seeing his cousin struggle to say the word. Little of Ithiel's face had changed throughout his speech, and even now, he did not anger at the Praetorian's blasphemy. It was not his place to make her or anyone else believe. The dark hybrid pulled the strips of meat from the rocks, inspecting them. They had curled like bacon, long and fatty pieces from along the goat's midsection. He passed them to his cousin, finally retreating from the fire and retiring from cooking, though he did not yet eat himself.

The red-haired coyote now peered at the ground, chewing morosely. Ithiel regarded her a moment before continuing, thinking it wisest to finish what he had to say. If she insisted upon her guilt, there was little he or anyone else could do for her. You killed, because otherwise, someone else would have had to die. The day may come where you have to kill again -- that day is almost a certainty, as I see it. If you're guarding my rear, I would not have you hesitate -- it may be my life you have to save next, the coyote said. Perhaps she would be shocked by his practicality. It seemed like her, though Ithiel could not say for certain -- relations with others were not his forte, and he might have miscalculated her.

So you haven't come to reassure me, you've only come because it might have something to do with you, if fate puts us in the right situation in the future, the woman said, anger still more apparent in her voice. The snarl did not reappear, but her face was twisted with unbecoming anger. Ithiel thought this was good -- it was better seeing her angry than seeing her apathetic and morose. The man smiled, one of those rare things that disappeared from his muzzle as quickly as it came. The dust-furred coyote's pause was long as he considered his words, responding only when he was certain of what he wanted to say.

No. You are a friend to me. If you were not, I wouldn't be here at all. I simply don't see the sense in being upset over a necessity. Them or us, he said, offering a shrug of his shoulder. It was not difficult for Ithiel to admit these things to others, however rarely he happened upon them. Kastra had never heard him utter such words -- the silver-furred commander was his leader, little else. There was no friendship between them, at least not from where Ithiel stood. I'm not the one to offer condolences and reassurance -- I wouldn't know where to begin. But I am trying to help -- in my own way.

Myrika

This dust-colored hybrid vexed her. Ithiel did not fraternize, Ithiel did not engage in camaradarie with the rest of Inferni. She had never seen him make small talk. The few times she had tried to engage him in any conversation beyond the practical, she rarely got a response from him. This conversation was also unprecedented territory. So I'm supposed to just forget about it, as far as you see it, she said, her voice dull only by force of will. He was treating her like a little girl. A thought occurred to Myrika, though: she was acting very much like a little girl. Ezekiel would have acted the same as she had, and he would not have regretted it for a week afterward. No question what her dark-furred cousin would have done.

She regarded her cousin with narrowed turquoise eyes, trying to make sense of him. He picked up one of the goat's haunches, holding it and looking thoughtful in that slow way he always did. The rusty-furred woman thought this might be the end of their conversation. Despite her anger with him, part of her was glumly resigned to Ithiel's perspective already. She shoved that part away -- she did not want to be okay with killing, however right it had been. Self-defense was no excuse. She could have restrained the wolf -- and then what? And then Ezekiel would have done justice for her instead, and Myrika would have been complicit in the wolf's death anyway.

No. Remember it, if you want. Regret it, if you must, but don't let your regret get in the way of your duty. If you live to be as old as our grandmother, you'll have time enough for regret. Something in the ashen coyote's face told Myrika he remembered little of his first kill, and she pondered how many had died with his arrows in their chest. The cinnamon-tinged hybrid would have been surprised by the real number, and just how low it was.

Myrika had expected something of a religious nature, and was surprised by his mention of old age. The corners of her muzzle crinkled as she churned over this a moment, watching Ithiel eat. How is it you're so goddamn indifferent to everything? she asked, her voice full of begrudging admiration. She hoped to show concession on the subject and segue into the next.

Ithiel

The dusty coyote ate his fill quickly and neatly. Myrika's question was received with a twist of both ears, and he chewed contemplatively, swallowing only when he'd formulated his answer. He licked his dark muzzle, streaked with a sooty smoke color rather than red as with so many of his cousins. I'm not. You won't like the reason, though, he said, looking at her as if for permission to continue. Speaking of spirituality was hitting a nerve with the russet-haired woman tonight, and he did not wish to upset her further. She nodded, however, and indicated he should continue. Fate, he said, simply enough. If you dislike the word, forget the future and think of it terms of the past. You can't change it.

This was the best advice the iron-furred coyote could provide. If she wanted to commiserate, it would not be Ithiel de le Poer. The dusky-hued coyote was unwilling or perhaps even incapable of it. A question of rhetoric occurred to Ithiel, but the man held his tongue, waiting to pose his question. Instead, the red-haired woman simply nodded slowly, picking up a kebab to chew on one end. She did not look at him; perhaps his words had struck a chord despite the warning. She seemed resigned and morose as ever, all evidence of her brief anger dwindled to nothing.

Ithiel took in a breath, prepared for the question to scald -- he expected it to, in any case, and would not have been surprised if she stormed away from him once it was asked. If she did, though -- perhaps tonight, perhaps the next night, realization would sink in. Perhaps she would not be so fond of him afterward, but Ithiel was capable of pausing their friendship for his older cousin to do some growing.

Do you regret saving her life, even you only temporarily prolonged it?

Myrika

The question was absurd. The tawny woman looked at Ithiel for a moment to make certain he was not joking. She had never heard him utter anything close to a joke before, so why he would begin jesting now was beyond Myrika; the tawny hybrid saw her cousin was serious and glared at him. That's a stupid question. Her response was pointed, her tone flat and more indicative of her opinion than her words.

A flicker passed over Ithiel's lips, and the red-eyed man regarded her with an expression close to amusement, a rare exoteric show of emotion, but one he deemed entirely necessary. He left it unsaid, but Myrika caught on a few moments later, looking up sharply from her food. I don't think I'm stupid for having some trouble with the idea of taking a life, no matter the circumstances. Sorry, she said, the sharp tone of her apology evidence of her insincerity. Myrika could hardly believe her ears, and he was making her angry again. For once, however, she was glad for his long and thoughtful pauses. Clearly, they were purposeful, and right now they served to keep her anger at a moderate level.

No, that's what you said, and, in all truth, I think those who don't have at least some regret at killing are strange. I gave a warning before -- perhaps I am the broken one, he said, reminding her of what he'd said earlier with no smugness to his countenance whatsoever. I cannot make you see with my eyes, and maybe that's for the best, Ithiel continued, leaning out to clean his blade on the snow. It left bloody red streaks, and Myrika stared at them as he spoke, his words registering clearly. But I hope you come out of this with a clear head and no guilt. That is the best solace I can give, the man said, truthfully -- he did not know how to comfort, let alone comfort someone agonizing over a crisis he did not understand.

Ithiel

It was not difficult for Ithiel to speak on such subjects. He was not exceptionally intelligent, but neither was he a sheep. Though much of his intelligence was derived from instinct and miraculous guesswork, the dark man never acted without thought. Every action needed a reason, and every time he spoke, the words that left his mouth were carefully calculated to deliver his precise meaning. This was difficult in conversations of loftier subject matter -- hence his avoidance of such discussions -- but not altogether impossible. Part of him might have even enjoyed this, had he not been concerned for a cousin, friend, superior, and packmate.

Myrika remained quiet a long time, no longer eating, but simply looking at the snow. Ithiel's crimson gaze looked to where she gazed, and he saw the blood. The dusky coyote leaned forward imperceptibly, catching her eyes. She looked through the snow and through the earth; she was in deep thought, her mind elsewhere. Whether she relived the events of last week or considered his words, Ithiel did not know. Though the Vigiles was not used to others taking their sweet time to reply, he did not mind the silence. He turned back toward the fire and restocked it, having no intention of leaving just yet, even if their meal was finished.

Perhaps she wanted him to go -- perhaps she silently raged at him. The dusky coyote did not mind this so much. Even if she was so angry as to avoid him for months, eventually she would see. Ithiel was patient in this manner, lacking in the brazen boldness of youth. There was no need to press or push his mahogany-haired cousin to a conclusion she would find on her own. Such organic discoveries were best, he thought. He was no guiding hand of God; the dusky coyote had never heard the Lord's voice speak, and he was certain He did no work through Ithiel de le Poer.

The dark man watched the shadows grow long and deep across the snow. The world turned to blue and silver, and when the moon's brightness was obscured by the clouds, gray and black. The long marshes of the waste stretched before the schoolhouse, hunkering half-decayed buildings and small copses of withered trees dotting the horizon here and there. He stole a glance toward Myrika now and then. She was still seemingly dazed, still thinking hard or quietly storming or something else entirely. Ithiel had no wish to see the inner workings of her soul; he thought they would be bleak and dark on this day.

At long last, she answered. I'll be fine. He heard sincerity in her voice, though he would take care to watch over her and ensure she did not regress.

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